Keeping Secrets Read online

  So finally I decided to go into the house and look for something to change into, and I could not freaking believe it when I go past the den and see Marc sitting there, all alone, in front of the TV. Only the TV was off, and his eyes were closed. So I just assumed he was probably sleeping, stoned, or meditating or something. And I just stood there staring at him, thinking how peaceful and beautiful he looked being all still and mellow like that, but also wishing he’d open his eyes and see me.

  But when he finally did, it was like nothing registered. He just sat there all silent, and then after awhile (which felt like forever) he finally patted the cushion beside him and passed me his iPod. And we sat there for like the longest time, just listening to music, and passing the earpiece back and forth.

  And even though it was cool, and calm and really pretty nice, after awhile I started to get a little annoyed at how there I was, sitting right next to him, in my bikini, and all he wanted to do was listen to music by bands I’ve never even heard of! I mean, not to be stuck up or anything, but most guys are willing to drop way more than their iPods when I’m half naked and ready to go.

  So finally, I just got up and left, thinking for sure he’d follow. Only he didn’t. And when I finally got over myself and went back in the den, he was gone. And after searching the entire house, I realized he really was gone. And I thought—screw him! But mostly I was feeling rejected. I mean, what’s with this guy? What’s with the whole mysterious Mr. Enigma act?

  Anyway, I got changed, got myself together, and got myself home. And then later, just as I’m falling asleep, I see this flash in my window. Kind of like an SOS or something, even though I’m not really sure how that SOS flash signal really goes. But it seemed like a flashlight being turned off and on, slowly, with short spaces of darkness in between.

  So, feeling kind of annoyed, and also kind of scared—I mean, was it aliens? Some psycho mass murderer? Because who does that? I got out of bed and headed for the window, moving the curtains just a tiny bit. And when I peeked through the narrow opening, I immediately grabbed my cell phone and started dialing 911. But then I looked again and I just couldn’t freaking believe what I saw. It’s like I seriously had to blink my eyes a whole bunch of times. I even rubbed them like you see in cartoons. But still, every time I opened them again, I saw the exact same thing.

  So I creeped down the hall, and into Echo’s room, being careful not to wake her. Then I went out to her balcony, and gestured in a what-the-hell-do-you-want kind of way. But he just stood there, motioning for me to come down.

  And I thought—No effin way! This guy is totally whacked and he’s probably planning to knock me out with his iPod Nano and drag me away, or something.

  But then he kept waving, and then he smiled. So I grabbed hold of a branch, and made my way down the oak tree, just like I’d done a gazillion times before.

  And when he met me at the bottom I asked, “What’re you, crazy?” And I tried to look mad and not scared like I really felt. I mean, it just then occurred to me how the front door was locked and how I’d never be able to get back up the tree in time, you know, in case I was in danger or something.

  But he just looked at me and goes, “I forgot to play you this one song.”

  And I just stood there, looking at him like he was completely looped. I mean, what the hell? It was like two o’clock in the morning. But still, I just stood there, listening to the song. It was jazz, and it was beautiful, though I’d definitely never heard it before. Then I gave him back his earpiece, praying to every god from every religion, begging to please just let me get back to my room safely and away from this music-loving head case who I mistakenly thought I liked.

  And just as I started to climb back up the tree, he placed his hand on my shoulder, forcing me to face him. Well, my first instinct was to scream, but I didn’t want to wake everyone and risk facing a world of hurt and a severely stunted summer, so I just turned around calmly, hoping I could talk him out of whatever sick act he was planning to perform.

  And that’s when he leaned in and kissed me!

  It was only once. And it was really brief. But still, it was the most amazing thing that ever happened to me.

  And then he smiled.

  And then he left.

  And I just stood there on the lawn, shivering in my bare feet, cotton cami, and boxers. Watching as he sprinted across the wet grass, leaving dark footprints in his wake, until I could no longer see him.

  June 24

  Today, when Echo walked in the door, holding the mail, she had the weirdest expression on her face.

  “So bizarre,” she said.

  And I go, “What’s bizarre?” And then I barely even looked up because I was busy eating strawberry yogurt while pretending to search through the want ads.

  And she goes, “This. It was sitting in the mailbox.”

  And she tosses this packet on the table in front of me and it makes this kind of rattling sound as it lands and skids.

  So I pick it up to see what the heck it is, and I go, “Huh, weird. It’s some kind of seeds.”

  And she goes, “What kind of seeds?”

  So I turn it over and see a picture of a tree on front. And it looks a lot like our oak tree does in the middle of spring, when its branches are all filled in with leaves. And then I see in the bottom of the left hand corner, in very small writing, the hand-scrawled words—Lush Life. And I remember the song from last night. The one Marc shared with me at two in the morning.

  And Echo goes, “Who would put seeds in the mailbox?”

  And I looked at her and smiled and said, “These are for me.

  I close the diary and close my eyes, my mind drifting back to the day I found the packet of seeds in the mailbox, and how strange it all seemed at the time. And how Zoë’s reaction made it seem even stranger, the way she smiled so secretly, like it actually meant something to her. Something she intended to keep from me.

  I guess having been born just two years apart allowed me to take her for granted. Assuming she’d always be there, that nothing could take her away. I mean, right from the beginning she was always there to cheer me on and teach me everything she’d learned during her two-year head start.

  It was Zoë who taught me how to keep my balance on my bike the day they took away my training wheels. And it was she who showed me how to build the perfect Barbie biodome subdivision using some old cardboard shoeboxes and a striped flannel sheet.

  But now, thinking back on all that, I also remember how when she moved away from all of those childhood things, she also moved away from me.

  And it’s weird how reading her diary is kind of like getting a second chance, like one last shot at knowing the sister who’d been so loving yet elusive, especially during those last few months.

  I prop my pillows against my headboard, until it’s comfortable enough to lean against. Then I reach for Zoë’s diary and flip through the pages, picking up where I left off.

  June 27

  At first I thought I’d take those seeds and plant them right underneath my window. You know, as an act of charity for some future generation, some yet-to-be-born teenage girl who won’t have to sneak down the hall, looking for escape, like me. But now that three days have passed and Marc hasn’t even bothered to call, I think I’ll probably just dump them in the trash, and try to forget the whole sick thing ever happened.

  I mean, why hasn’t he called??

  Maybe he really is crazy.

  Maybe I should just hang up on him when (if) he does.

  June 28

  Hung by the pool with Paula all day, just working on my tan. All she could talk about was her crush on Keith, determined to get to the bottom of who he looks like more—Russell Crowe or Ben McKenzie? Boring! I just pretended to be asleep.

  I know I’m being a bad friend, but what can I say? Marc still hasn’t called, and because of that I’ve decided to take a vow of mental celibacy. That’s right. No more thinking about, dreaming about, or even talking about guys
.

  Any guys.

  Because they’re all the same.

  They all suck.

  June 30

  Still celibate.

  Still hate guys (with the exception of Dad—well, most of the time).

  Extremely tan though.

  July 2

  Omigod. Where to begin? OK, started my job at the head shrinker today—way way better than I thought, though it’s not like I’ll be confessing that anytime soon. As far as my parents are concerned he’s a fair yet firm employer, who has exceedingly high expectations that I will struggle to meet, and that’s the story I’m sticking to.

  When the truth is he spends most of the day behind a closed door, listening to all those messed-up whiners drone on and on about their lonely, miserable, fucked-up lives.

  Which means my day is filled with long, leisurely fifty-minute breaks where I can nap, talk on my cell, surf the Net, whatever, just as long as the filing gets done and the phone answered within the first three rings. Not bad for a summer job.

  But today I mostly napped. Because I was sooooo tired from last night. And here’s why—

  I was in my room, watching TV with the volume down low, when I heard someone calling my name. Not like yelling it out or anything, more like a loud—okay, really loud—whisper. So I immediately jumped up, ran to the mirror, combed my fingers through my hair, dabbed on some lip gloss, and sprayed some perfume, the whole time my heart beating so fast I thought it would break through my chest.

  And then right as I started to run to my window, I stopped and thought—What the hell? He doesn’t call for over a week, and now he shows up at one in the morning expecting me to do the whole Rapunzel thing again? Well, screw him.

  So I plopped right back down on my bed and lifted the remote, ready to turn up the volume and tune him out. But then he called my name again and I started to worry that he was gonna wake the whole house, so I opened my window and faced him.

  “Shhh!” I said, pressing my finger against my lips and shaking my head so he’d know that I meant it.

  But he just raised his arm, the one holding the bouquet of flowers.

  So I slipped down the stairs and out the front door, running all the way across the lawn to meet him.

  “Here,” he said, handing me the flowers he probably clipped from my next-door neighbor’s yard. And when I brought them to my nose their smell was so sweet, it was hard to stay mad.

  “What’s going on?” he said, all casual, like everything was totally normal and not at all weird.

  I just looked at him, as gorgeous and sexy as ever, but seemingly unaware of the fact that it was the middle of the night! “Um, what’s going on?” I said. “Well let’s see. It’s after midnight, I haven’t heard from you all week, and now you decide to just drop by and yell out my name ‘til you wake the whole house.” I shook my head and looked at him, trying my best to appear really mad.

  But he just shrugged. “I don’t have your number,” he said.

  So I go, “OK, well, you could’ve asked somebody for my number, you know, like Paula, or someone?”

  But he just goes, “I don’t have Paula’s number either.”Then, “Listen, I was up at the lake, at my grandmother’s house, and I didn’t get back until late.”

  I just looked at him. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to hang with his grandma. So I go, “Please, your grandmother’s house?” Then I shook my head, rolling my eyes for emphasis. And then I realized that I really didn’t have a good reason not to believe that, other than the fact that it just seemed like a lie. “OK so why are you here now?” I asked, holding the flowers tightly to my chest, my heart pounding like crazy.

  “Because I wanted to do this,” he whispered.

  Then he leaned in and kissed me.

  And when he pulled away he reached into his pocket and grabbed a pen. Then he pushed up his sleeve and held out his arm. “Here,” he said. “Write down your number so I can call you. And write big so I can see it in the dark.”

  And when I was done, he flipped open his phone and walked away. And by the time I made it back to my room, mine was ringing. And we talked for so long, I had to plug it into my charger. And he told me so many things, and answered so many questions, I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as well as this. Seriously, he even told me about how . . .

  Crap. I drop the diary and listen to the doorbell ring. One time, quickly followed by two. Gotta be Parker. And I hate to admit this, but I wish he’d just go away so I can finish reading about Zoë and Marc and how it all began. It’s like, in the beginning they were so much in love, but then later, they were a lot less so. And I need to know what happened in that space between, learn exactly what it was that made everything change.

  But then the bell rings again, and I push the diary back under my mattress, gazing at the tree outside, and wondering if I should try to rappel my way down and run across the lawn just like Zoë would’ve done. I mean, it definitely seems a lot more romantic than making my way downstairs, opening the front door, and letting him in the usual way.

  But then again, I’m not Zoë.

  Which means I don’t even stop by the mirror to check my reflection before I go downstairs to greet him.

  Sixteen

  I’ve never cooked dinner for anyone before, much less a guy. Though to be honest, I guess I still haven’t. I mean, my mom’s the one who actually made the lasagna. All I did was reheat it.

  “This is excellent,” Parker says, taking another bite.

  “Glad you like it.” I nod, hating the way I sound so stiff and formal, and how it’s practically impossible for me to ever relax and be normal around him.

  “I had no idea you were such a good cook.” He smiles. “Which makes me wonder what other talents you’re hiding.”

  I reach for my glass and sip my water, even though it’s really more about nerves than thirst. “Well actually, I didn’t really make it. You know, the lasagna,” I say, mentally rolling my eyes at my lame-brain self, wondering what the heck he’s even doing here. I mean, is he desperate? Is this some kind of bet?

  “Well, you’ve got the whole reheating gig down, and that’s gotta count for something, right?” He smiles.

  We mostly talk about school, classes, teachers, people we know. And every time there’s a break, every time it gets silent, the scraping of his fork sounds so incredibly loud that I say just about anything to fill up the gap.

  He helps me clear the table, then I lead him to the den. But just as I make a beeline for the couch he touches my arm and goes, “Where’s your room?”

  And I go, “Oh, um, it’s upstairs.” Then I point in that direction, like he doesn’t know where up is. Oh God.

  “Can I see it?”

  I glance at the clock, then back at him, knowing my parents won’t return for at least another hour. Which technically should make me want to say yes, even though I’m a lot closer to no.

  “Come on. I just wanna see what it’s like,” he says, smiling in a way that’s trying a little too hard to seem friendly and harmless, and like he has no ulterior motives.

  If I was Zoë, I would’ve served the entire meal on my bed, sitting Indian style on my duvet, with plates and dishes spread all around, just lighting candles, cranking a CD, and not giving a shit if anything spilled. But even though I’m nothing like her, that doesn’t mean I have to act like me. So I grab his hand and take a deep breath, promising myself it will all be okay.

  He stands in the doorway, scoping it out. “Yup,” he says, making his way across the room until he’s standing before my bookshelf.

  “Yup, what?” I ask, leaning against the wall and trying to see my room for the very first time, to see it like he sees it.

  His eyes scan the titles of all of my books, as his fingers brush lightly over my softball trophies, second and third place, from fourth and fifth grade. “Just like I thought,” he says, turning to smile.

  I just stand there, wondering if I should feel more disappointed that
I’m apparently so predictable and easy to read.

  “Lots of books, a few CDs, but thank God no puppy posters or pictures of Aaron Carter.” He laughs.

  “Well, I got rid of all that on my fifteenth birthday. Dumped it right in the trash. I’m into older men now. You know, octogenarians. Know where I can find a good Harrison Ford centerfold?” I ask, going over to lean on the edge of my desk and smiling nervously.

  He checks out my TV, my iPod dock, and my bulletin board full of cards and letters and photos, including the one of me, Jenay, and Abby, making faces and hamming it up for the camera, and the one right next to it of Zoë and me sitting at the kitchen table, heads close together, crossing our eyes and sticking our tongues out at my dad, who was taking the picture. Then he wanders over to my bed, and sits on the edge. “When’re your parents coming back?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like he’s only mildly interested in the answer.

  “An hour, two at the most,” I say, gazing down at my feet and my messed-up pedicure, and then curling my toes under so he won’t see.

  “Would they freak if they found me here?”

  I shrug. I mean, I really don’t know the answer to that since it’s not like I’ve ever had the opportunity to risk that kind of trouble before.

  “No worries,” Parker says. “If they come home, I’ll just jump off your balcony.” He nods toward my open french doors. “Or scale down that tree.” He smiles.

  Then he pats the mattress like a silent invitation, and I take a deep breath and move toward him.

  We’re kissing. We’re lying on my bed and kissing. And I can taste the lasagna lingering on his tongue, and smell the garlic mixed in with his breath. And even though it’s not near as bad as it sounds, it’s not what you’d call “amazing” either.